The ballroom sparkled like a constellation...every crystal chandelier casting diamonds across the marble floor, every guest dressed like royalty. Arabella Hart stood near the edge of it all, champagne flute trembling between her fingers, her heart thudding not from nerves, but wonder.
She still couldn't believe this was her life.
Just six months ago, she was a middle school English teacher in Boston, living off student loan forgiveness and black coffee. Now, she was Mrs. Sebastian Crane, married to a man whose name made headlines in Forbes and whispers in boardrooms. The wedding had been a global event—exclusive and extravagant, set in a castle on the Amalfi Coast. Tonight, they were back in Manhattan, celebrating their six-month anniversary with a charity gala in his name.
Sebastian had spared no expense.
Arabella caught sight of her husband across the room, surrounded by a circle of financiers and high-profile tech founders. His dark, tailored tuxedo molded to his frame like art, his jaw sharp, hair brushed back with effortless precision. He laughed—a deep, intoxicating sound—and then looked up.
Their eyes met.
He smiled that smile that had once unraveled her entirely.
And in that moment, she forgot the tiny cracks that had been showing lately.
The missed dinners. The cold shoulders. The meetings that never ended.
He walked toward her, parting through guests like gravity bent in his favor. He reached her, slid an arm around her waist, and kissed her temple gently.
"You look like a dream," he murmured, voice low enough only she could hear.
Arabella smiled, her breath catching. "And you look like the man I fell in love with."
There it was—that flicker in his eyes. Guilt? Or something else?
He didn't answer. Instead, he lifted her hand and kissed her fingers in front of the cameras that had started to gather. The image of perfection.
They danced once the jazz quartet started. He held her close, like she was fragile, precious—his. The world disappeared. Maybe she was overthinking it all. Maybe he was just stressed from work. Maybe—
"I have a meeting tomorrow morning," he said quietly into her ear.
Her stomach dipped. "On a Sunday?"
"It's in San Francisco. Overnight."
Another trip.
Arabella nodded slowly, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. "You've been flying a lot lately."
He didn't respond. His jaw tensed.
There was more she wanted to say. Are you happy? Are you still in this with me? Why do I feel like I'm slipping through your fingers? But the music swelled again, drowning the moment.
Later that night, in their penthouse suite, she lit candles. She wore the black silk slip he once told her drove him wild. She waited in their bed, heart racing, hope blooming.
Midnight passed.
1 A.M.
Her phone buzzed. A text.
Sebastian: Don't wait up. I'll sleep in the guest wing. Need to be up early.
Her heart dropped like a stone.
The candles burned out.
The next morning, Arabella stood by the window, watching his town car pull away. She saw a woman inside. Blonde. Expensive. Laughing at something Sebastian said.
Arabella blinked. The car turned, vanished.
Was that his assistant?
Was she overthinking?
Again?
Later that week, at a designer event Sebastian was meant to escort her to, Arabella waited outside the venue in heels too high and a dress too tight, only to get a text saying he'd been "called away" last minute.
She rode the elevator home alone, heels in hand, mascara smudged.
She opened their bedroom door.
And paused.
There was a second glass on the nightstand.
Red lipstick on the rim.
She walked over, touched it.
Suddenly, the bathroom door creaked.
Arabella's heart raced. She turned, expecting to confront whoever was inside—
But it was empty.
Nothing.
The door had simply been ajar.
She let out a shaky breath, but that glass still sat there, mocking her.